Coming Home
by SpaceShipZoom
Summary: Sherlock turns up on John's doorstep, five years after the events of The Reichenbach Fall. They both thought the danger was gone. They were both wrong.
1. Arrival

John sat on the front porch, eyes fixed on the end of the road. He said he'd be here an hour ago. So where was he? He twisted the gold band on his left ring finger anxiously. He hadn't told Molly why he was waiting, of course. She'd always gone a bit pale whenever his name was mentioned. He thought she just misses him. When they thought he'd died, all John could think about was him. She always refused to join in conversations about him. It was very odd.

He's nearly two hours late now, John thought. He knew this would happen, he knew it! John ran a hand through his short hair, and sank back into the swing seat.

He'd read the text at least a hundred times, but he read it again.

"John. I'm coming to see you. 3rd of August. 11 o'clock. Make sure you're in. -SH"

He turned his head to look at the house, pondering calling Molly and asking for a cuppa. He didn't expect to see what he did.

Lounging in a large flowerpot, which contained Molly's now squashed pansies. He looked exactly the same - same unruly black hair, same steely eyes, same lanky physique.

He was even wearing the same bloody coat.

"Took your time, John. I've been sat here for an hour."

It was him.

It really was.

Sherlock.

"WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO!" John yelled. Sherlock looked shocked, evidently expecting tears and happiness.

"I've been busy" the taller man replied. Now he had stood up, John could get a closer look at him. He wasn't exactly the same. He was thinner than before, if that was even possible, and there were strands of silver in his inky hair. He looked very, very tired.

"Busy? For god's sake, Sherlock, what kept you busy for FIVE YEARS?" John was angry. Why is he angry? I thought he missed me, Sherlock thought. He wished John would stop shouting. So Sherlock did something he'd never done before, and something he sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to do again.

"I'm sorry, John."

John was stunned. "Wha-what?" he stammered. Sherlock apologising? He knew that the apocalypse was supposed to come this year, but Sherlock apologising? They looked at eachother for what seemed like an eternity, before John finally broke the silence.

"Should I put the kettle on?

They sat in John's cottage, staring at eachother. Both wanted to talk, but neither quite knew what to say. Five years ago this would've been the easiest thing in the world, a chat over a cup of tea. But now... It was so awkward. Like, REALLY awkward. Sherlock tapped his nails on the table impatiently, as if waiting for John to speak first. Eventually, John spoke up.

"So where were you?"

Sherlock eyes lit up. Immediatly he launched into a long-winded story involving shrubs, fugatives, three pineapples and a friendly barman called Kevin.

"It was really quite simple to figure out, John." Sherlock finished, matter-of-factly. John looked a bit like a goldfish, opening and closing his mouth trying to think of something to say.

Coincidentally, Molly chose that exact moment to enter the living room. She merely nodded at Sherlock and wandered out again, not suprised at all. This just added to John's bewilderment.

"Whats Molly doing here?" Sherlock asked, probably just to humour his friend. He already knew, of course. There was John's gold ring, the light in John's eyes when she walked into the room, and one more thing... Oh yes, the big wedding photo on the coffee table.

"She's my wife, Sherlock." John said, smiling slightly. Sherlock could see how happy they were together. Maybe ignoring Molly's romantic advances was a good thing, in the end.

"I'm sorry I missed the wedding." Sherlock replied. John smirked.

"You wouldn't have liked it. Molly did all the decorations and everything. It was very...pink." John laughed. "Although I wish you could have been best man. I had to make do with Greg." Sherlock spat his tea everywhere.

"Lestrade was your best man? LESTRADE?" Sherlock laughed, imagining John and Molly at the alter with Lestrade standing awkwardly next to them. It was just too funny.

"Well, pack up your things, John. We're going back to 221b" Sherlock ordered, rising from his seat. John looked shocked.

"I can't go back, Sherlock. Theres only two bedrooms" answered John, calmly.

"And? You would be sharing with Molly, of course." Said Sherlock, not understanding.

"No, Sherlock, you don't get it-" John was interuptted by a high pitched shriek coming from the next room. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and rushed into the room, leaving John sitting on the sofa, a look on his face that made him seem another ten years older.

"Its okay Sherlock, its just-" John stopped at the scene he saw entering the door. Sherlock was staring into the corner, a disgusted look on his face.

"What is THAT?" Sherlock whispered, incredulously. His eyes didn't move from the corner, revolted but fascinated at the same time.

"That, is my daughter!" replied John, scooping the little girl out of the cot. She stopped screaming straight away. Sherlock stared at the baby.

"Whats her name?" Sherlock asked politely, trying to make up for his rudeness at this little pink thing that had more of John's attention than he did. John blushed and looked away, slightly ashamed at her name. He muttered something inaudible. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Alright, alright! Her name's Sh... She's called Shirley." John said, smiling as Sherlock burst out laughing. "Well, we couldn't exactly call a girl Sherlock, could we? Here." John passed Shirley to his friend, who held her at arms length. She had a shock of curly, black hair. Shirley gurgled at Sherlock, who quickly placed her back into her cot.

"I had best be going then, I can see you're busy." Sherlock said, wiping his hands on his long coat.

"Sherlock, wait... We have a spare room, if you want it?" John grinned at his best friend. Sherlock smiled shyly back.

"I missed you, John."

"I missed you too."


	2. There's no place like Holmes

**_Its a short chapter, but its basically just a little bit of an insight into their new life. Chapter three will be a bit more interesting, I promise! Reviews would be great please (:_  
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Sherlock had been living at the Watsons' Cottage for around six months now. Although he didn't want to admit it, he really did love it there. His room was in the back corner of the house, coincedentally the furthest point possible from Shirley's room. The location of the house itself was wonderful. It was like it was in a whole other world. It was secluded and away from the roar of the city, but not too far from Scotland Yard so Sherlock could carry on working. Molly had provided him with this huge refrigerator to keep in his room, so he could keep his dismembered hands and 'experiments' there, instead of next to Shirley's bottles. Mrs Hudson had sold 221b Baker Street to some other buyers, a 'lovely couple from Scandinavia' she told him. She had been kind enough to send his clothes, his violin and his beloved skull over, though.

Sherlock and Molly had an unspoken agreement about Molly's part in helping Sherlock survive. It would've broken John's heart to know that his wife let him believe his best friend had been dead for all these years. They were completely happy to have a bit of banter now and again, but if the topic of Sherlock's 'death' came up, they both became a bit subdued.

John was the happiest he'd ever been. Living in a quaint little cottage with a big green garden, with his wonderful wife, his beautiful daughter and his best friend. Greg came over for dinner frequently, and became known as 'Uncle Greggy' by Shirley. They would play board games (not cluedo) by the fire in the evening, or just chat over a hot chocolate.

There really was no place like home.


	3. Birthday memories

After almost a year of living in the cottage, a very special day occurred - Shirley's first birthday. Well, it was special for Shirley, Molly and John. Sherlock...not so much. He tended to keep to his room whenever the toddler was about. Unfortunately, Shirley had taken a liking to Sherlock. Whenever he emerged from his den for some tea, his goddaughter would toddle over, squealing "Locklock!" at the detective. She would latch onto the leg of his trouser, and giggle whenever he tried to move away, dragging her across the floor.

She had grown into a very energetic toddler. Shirley had the best of both worlds from her parents - she was caring, and had a fondness for pretty things like her mother, and was brave and loyal like her father. She had only a small vocabulary, which consisted mainly of words she had picked up from her godfather. Her favourite word was "sociopath", pronounced "soshopaff", much to her fathers amusement.

On this particular day, Shirley was extra-excited. She had lots and lots of presents from her mummy and daddy to open! Locklock had been dragged by his scarf into the living room to watch all the presents be unwrapped. Her previously jet-black hair had lightened over the year, and was now a coppery-red colour. Sherlock sat silently as Shirley unwrapped her presents, with a lot of help from her doting parents.

Sherlock realised something that morning. He was jealous of the little girl. It wasn't that she got all of John's attention, no, it was something more than that. Something he had tried to lock out of his mind palace. Something he hadn't even told John about.

He'd never had a good childhood. Mycroft was the popular one. Sherlock was that little freak. Thats what they always used to call him.

Freak.

That's what Sally still called him. She was three years below him at school, but she still joined in the crowd of jeering students.

Freak. Freak. Freak.

His parents weren't exactly bothered, either. It was Mycroft this, and Mycroft that. You wouldn't even know they had another son.

But Shirley...she was a very lucky girl. Her parents adored her. She lived in a lovely house. Sherlock knew it wasn't her fault he felt the way he did, but seeing her grinning up at him... it was hard. He decided that although he may never be totally okay with the idea of a child running around near his formaldehyde, he would do everything he could to make sure that this girl never had to endure the suffering he had to as a child.

No-one deserves that.

She looked up at him expectantly, wondering where her present from Locklock was. He stared back at her, before breaking into a smile. He handed her a small, soft package, wrapped in paper decorated with skulls. She tugged at the paper, and with a little help from her godfather, she finally got into the present.

Her mummy and daddy erupted into peals of laughter. John picked up the miniture deerstalker hat, and placed it on his daughter's head.

"I Locklock!" she squealed, and even Sherlock had to stifle a laugh.

The rest of the day passed in a whirl of cake and visits from Uncle Greggy. By bedtime, Shirley was well and truly knackered. Molly placed her in her cot, planted a kiss on her forehead and left the room.

In the morning, when John came to pick her up, Shirley wasn't there.


	4. A visit from Scotland Yard

John stared on the cot, trying to get his bleary eyes to focus and his sleep-addled mind to work properly. After a good couple of minutes, his eyes widened dramatically, and he sprinted to Sherlock's room. He banged on the door relentlessly. He ended up breaking the hinges, plus one or two of his knuckles.

Sherlock stood calmly next to his bed. John pointed frantically, first at Sherlock, then down the hallway to where Shirley's bedroom was. Then he passed out in the doorway.

When he came to, he was lying on the couch, wrapped in a tartan blanket, with a bandage on his hand and his arm in a sling. He later found out that Greg and Anderson had moved him there when they came to inspect Shirley's bedroom. Molly was sat on the armchair opposite, clutching a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, and staring at some point in the distance. The springs creaked as John sat up, alerting Molly to his regain of consciousness. He slid to the corner, and patted the empty seat. Molly came and sat next to him, put her head on his shoulder, and together they waited for Sherlock, Greg and the team to finish investigating the bedroom.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Sherlock walked into the lounge. The Watson's both looked up at him, expectantly. Sherlock slowly began to explain what they had discovered.

"There is no blood, nor any sign that Shirley has been harmed in any way-" Sherlock started. He was interrupted by Molly bursting into tears. John held her tighter and stroked her hair, before motioning for Sherlock to continue talking.

"The person who took Shirley isn't an amateur, John, you have to know this. Its like the taxi driver, he wants us to find him. Actually, he wants me to find him. Its him, John." Sherlock, finished. John closed his eyes.

"How do you know?" John whispered.

"There was an M slashed onto the back of the door. Rather like Zorro." Anderson chipped in. Sherlock shot him a look that rather clearly screamed "Shut your ungodly, lop-sided mouth Anderson or it'll be your disappearence that we're investigating next, courtesy of me".

"I'm so sorry, John. It's all my fault. I should never have come back." Sherlock said, hanging his head.

"Sherlock..." John began.

"I have to go, John. The longer I stay here, the more danger your family will be in."

"You can't leave now!" John exclaimed.

"He's right you know, Sherlock," Lestrade said, entering the room. "You can't leave them in this mess."

"Fine, but as soon as this is over, I will leave, I promise."

John didn't answer.

"Sherlock, and John, if you want, we need you at the lab. Sally will stay with Molly."

John kissed Molly's head, rose from the sofa and left the house with Sherlock.


	5. Searching for clues

"Blunt blade, one point five to two centimetres in width, one millimetre thick" Sherlock muttered under his breath, analysing a photograph of the 'M' on the back of the door. "This was carved with a table knife, left handedly. Look how the deepest point on the gashes are slightly to the right. He was holding a knife in his left hand, leaning it sideways. It would have been straight, but he was holding Shirley in his other arm, thus making him lean to the right." Sherlock deduced. John, normally impressed by his friend's displays of immense intellect, remained silent.

Lestrade strode over to where John stood, slumped against the filing cabinet. He spoke quietly, so Sherlock couldn't make out what he was saying, but whatever it was seemed to cheer John up somewhat, and Sherlock had to admit he was grateful. Together, the three of them scanned every nook and cranny of that child's bedroom, and discovered some very interesting information.

"He was crawling," John pointed out. " There are deep dents in the carpet where the knee was, shallow lines for the shins, then ovals where his feet were."

"There are traces of soot on the mattress, maybe he's somewhere with fire damage?" pondered Greg. He was quite new to the whole 'Sherlock way of thinking' so he wasn't as good at noticing the minute details as the other two.

Sherlock look at his only two friends, exasperated. "John, Lestrade, you were both right...ish. But you're not looking hard enough! Moriarty has injured his ankle, notice how the imprints for the left leg are much deeper than the right, and the dents for the right foot are incredibly faint. He crawled, as he didn't wish to draw attention to the sound of his limp. As for the soot, it is coal dust. He hasn't been in a fire. But thankyou, Lestrade. I now have a very good idea of where Jim has taken John's daughter."

John was a military man. He was normally an expert at hiding his emotions, and getting on with the job that needed doing. But Sherlock's reassurance that his daughter is safe, and he knows where she is, made him well up. Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what to do! He couldn't tell him that emotions are for the weak, or that crying is pointless. He'd done that before, and ended up with a very sore head for the next week. So he just stood there, awkwardly, whilst John wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and just generally regained his composure.

"Well what are we waiting for then?" John cried. The men marched out of the door, just as a very bemused Greg came back in with coffee.

"Come on Lestrade, we have work to do!" commanded Sherlock. So they set off, in an unmarked police car, to the location which Sherlock had deduced was the place where Shirley was. They took a brief detour to John's cottage, as Sherlock wished to pick up his scarf.

As he entered his den, his eyes fell upon a note on his pillow. Molly had reassured them that no-one had entered or left the house since they'd left hours previously. The note was in blue ink, from a ballpoint pen. The author was male, right-handed.

"Just because you can come back from the dead,  
>It doesn't mean everybody can.<br>His legacy lives on."

Underneath, printed on the paper was a small, but ornate, M.


	6. Astell Mine

"John, Lestrade, we have to go. Now." Sherlock bellowed from his room. He strode swiftly down the hall and into the lounge, where John and Greg were waiting for him. Just as they were about to leave, a hand grasped John's coat.

"If you think you are going ANYWHERE without me, you have another thing coming." Said Molly, stubbornly. Her nose was red and her eyes were puffy from crying. "She's my daughter, too, John."

John looked at his wife, the sheer devotion to her family shining through her watery eyes.

"Fine, but it could be dangerous, you know that?" John answered, knowing that refusing would be fighting a losing battle. She nodded, her long, brown hair falling into her eyes. They walked towards the police car together, hand in hand. Sherlock and Greg were already in the front seats. They rolled their eyes as they saw Molly with John, but neither of them was surprised.

"So where are we headed, Sherlock?" Greg asked, speeding down the motorway.

"Astell Mine. Its been abandoned for years. Its the only place within a thirty mile radius of the cottage which worked with the particular type of coal that was found in Shirley's cot." Sherlock explained.

"Oh, and it isn't Moriarty that we're dealing with."

Greg, John and Molly all stared at Sherlock, disbelieving. Eventually, John spoke up.

"Who is it then?"

"I have suspicions, but for once I sincerely hope I am wrong..."

The rest of the journey passed in a very, very awkward silence. When they eventually pulled up at the mine, they all jumped out of the car, as silently as possible. They'd already decided that the best plan of action was to split up and search the warehouse. The mines were all closed up from where they collapsed many years ago, so it was pointless searching through them.

Greg entered the building first, and went into what used to be the office. In there, he found a table knife. The one that Sherlock had described as making the M on Shirley's door.

Sherlock went in next. He investigated the large machinery room. There, hanging of the side of a foreboding iron mechanism was Shirley's blanket. The one that Molly had used to tuck her in on that fateful night.

John climbed the rickety stairs onto the second floor. He searched through the locker room that the miners used to use. He flung open every single locker. One, in the centre of the second row, was jammed shut. He beat the door in with his fists. Inside, was Shirley's deerstalker. The one that Sherlock had bought her. The one that she had refused to take off last night.

Molly was last. She walked, legs shaking, right up to the very top floor. There was only one room. Slowly, she turned the tarnished brass handle.

And there she was.

Shirley, lying on the floor, asleep. Molly rushed over to her and scooped her into her arms. She stroked her auburn curls, and cried silently into her shoulder. The floorboard creaked behind her.

Molly whipped around, still clutching Shirley.

"You!" she screamed.

"Me." replied the snide, devious voice of Anderson.


	7. FIRE!

As Molly began to scream for help, Anderson clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her into a storage cupboard, where no-one could hear her. He stood there and stared at her, holding the baby girl.

"Well, this is a nice change. She hasn't shut up since I got back from your house this morning." Anderson laughed. "And to think, you all thought it was Moriarty! He's dead, Molly!" His cold voice echoed around the tiny room. "Your little friend should be dead too. Remember Jim's deal? If he dies, everyone else would be safe. But you couldn't let that happen, could you Molly? You had to help him live. Jim told Sherlock that we would find out if he was alive. And oh, Molly, you did a very good job of keeping it a secret, until he turned up at your house a little over a year ago. All the other operatives had left London, convinced that he was gone for good, but I couldn't leave my job. It would've blown my cover, see? I would've killed you all as soon as he returned, but I had a better idea... Why not kill the girl instead? One death that would affect you all greatly. One easy little death that I could do without getting my hands dirty. But I couldn't do it then, not just yet. It wouldn't hurt him enough. Sure, he'd be sad because of John, and you, and Greg, but the girl... He could live without her. I had to wait for him to grow attatched to her. And when Greg returned to the office, with tales of her birthday and all the fun that there had been, I knew now it was time to make my move."

"Why are you telling me this?" Molly asked, trying to be strong for her daughter, who she was still holding tight to her chest.

"Because now you're here, I may as well kill you as well."

He left the cupboard, kicked the door shut, and lit a match.

Sherlock, John and Greg all looked up at the smoke billowing around the building. The amount of coal that had accumulated there over the years made it go up like a rocket.

Molly shoved Shirley under her top, trying to stop the smoke from entering her lungs. Luckily the cupboard had a tiny window. Throwing it open, she screamed down to the men who had just left the building. They came racing around to the window.

"ANDERSON" Molly shrieked. Sherlock merely looked away. Lestrade charged off again, hoping to get to Anderson before he got too far. It shouldn't be that difficult, he had injured himself after all.

"Shirley!" John yelled,

"Dada!" Shirley screamed back. Molly held her up to the window. Sherlock took off his coat and he and John held it taut, to catch the little girl. Molly lifted Shirley out of the window.

"Its okay Molly, we'll catch her!" Sherlock shouted up to the terrified woman.

Time seemed to stand still as Shirley soared through the air, screaming. She landed safely in the centre of the coat. John picked her up and kissed his daughter on the top of her head.

"Now you Molly! JUMP!" John called up to the window. But the window was small, and Molly had inhaled an awful lot of smoke. She was dizzy. She managed to get her head, and one of her arms through the window.

And then the fireball ripped through the building.


	8. Five years later

"My beautiful Molly,

It's been five years now. I still can't believe it, really. I thought all the danger was gone when I thought Sherlock had died. In some ways, I wish he hadn't come back. Then I could still have you, and Shirley would still have her mummy.

She's six years old now, and looking more like you every day. She's very clever. I think she spends too much time with Sherlock.

He still lives in the cottage. He wanted to leave after you died, he was saying that it was all his fault for coming back, and that the sooner he left the better. I made him stay in the end. I'm glad he did. I don't know how I could've got through this without him. He kept me busy with trivial cases so that I had my mind taken off things. Plus, he's always there if I needed a babysitter.

Shirley started screaming the other night. I went into her room, and she told me about her dream. There was a fire. A big, big fire. A big, big fire that mummy was in. We'd never kept what happened to you a secret, but this was different... I think she was remembering what happened. But she was only one when it all happened.

Anderson is four years into his life sentence, on accounts of kidnap, arson, murder and attempted murder. Greg managed to get him into the police car before he could even leave the mine. No chance of bail.

Shirley's drawn you a picture. It's in the envelope. Its of me, you and her. You're hovering off the ground slightly. She says its because you're an angel. She really is a very clever girl.

I love you.

John."

John bent down over the marble headstone and placed the white envelope amongst the tulips that were growing. They had been her favourite. He held his hand out to his daughter, and together they walked back the way they'd came.


End file.
